Behind Closed Doors
by Sand Cursive
Summary: She's always marvelled that someone who moves so fast can make the world stop. Not all happy. You've been warned. M for sexual themes and language.
1. Circumstance

**Disclaimer: (Goodness, I keep forgetting to put these things in). So obviously, if I owned Young Justice, we would be seeing new episodes. Yesterday. **

The white walls of the infirmary are so cold and unwelcoming, she almost turns around and goes straight back where she came. But he's sitting in here, somewhere, trying to tend to his wound on his own and it doesn't sit well with her, so she continues on.

He's sitting on the last bed, attempting to staunch the blood flow around the protrusion in his shoulder. She stands across from him, and he pretends not to notice, struggling to remove the offending shard. The blood is crusting a little bit, but she knows it's deep, and something squirms in her gut and she flinches. Walking decisively over, she grabs the cotton from his hands and swipes gently around the arrowhead. He tenses, surprised, but doesn't stop her. She glances at it– he heals fast, so if she doesn't do it soon, the muscle will start to mend around it. "Just relax," she mutters, and she yanks it out before he has space to react, dropping it onto the table beside them, where the tip breaks off - unusable. He winces though, and while her expression doesn't change, she tenses, and her hands still. The violent contractions in her gut push worry and anger and frustration and relief all together, and soon the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. "God, Kid Idiot, this is why I told you to watch my BACK."

And he flinches, and soon the anger and shock and hurt and indignation are all battling on his face, and he throws back, "You're welcome you know. Next time I won't bother trying to save your self-righteous ass."

She knows really, that he was only trying to help, and the feelings in her gut are squirming again, so she bites her lip and starts to bandage his shoulder, applying the slightest of medical glue around the wound to help with the healing. "There, it's all finished." They both know she isn't only talking about the wrappings, but she still doesn't move from where she's sitting. She peers up from beneath her eyelids, and he's just watching her. He just looks quiet, and thoughtful, and she can see something in his eyes, but she can't quite make it out. His gaze is warm though, and her face is flushing, and soon all these stupid feelings are pushing through her and around her and she's so emotionally tense that she does the only thing she can think of.

His lips are soft, even if he's a little bit stiff, and soon she's been pulled into his lap and they're just making out. His hands are tangling in her long gold hair, and she's running her fingers through his soft ginger mess. She's pressed up against him, and she can hear his heart hammering in his chest. He's really warm.

When they come up for air again, she slides off his lap and moves to leave. He doesn't move to stop her, and neither say a word. Even later, when they're all gathered in the kitchen with M'gann's third batch of somewhat edible cookies, they don't speak about it. Instead, she makes a derisive comment about his eating habits, and he calls her what amounts to a shrew, and they both go about with their lives.

* * *

><p>A week later though, they can both feel that something's changed. Their dynamic has shifted, and they aren't really sure how to approach it. Neither one wants to be the first to broach the topic, because feelings are unpredictable, and reactions more so. They're standing in the kitchen, fighting again, because really, what else can they do?<p>

"You're being a pig. Could you at least watch where you're spewing all that bile before you go whipping around?"

"As if it matters. There isn't much that I could do that would make much difference where your face is involved."

"Just bitter, aren't you, because your luck with the ladies is so pathetically low?"

"You would know wouldn't you, since I guess you aren't really a lady at all!"

And soon it's getting heated and intense and very, very cruel and their faces are flushed and their breathing is heavy. The kitchen has long since been abandoned for more savoury locations – no one really wants to be caught in the middle of what Robin has affectionately termed "Another domestic squabble."

Her cheeks are flushed quite prettily though, and it stops KF's heart for a minute. And she notes, with some amusement, that there's a crumb lingering on the corner of his lips. And they look so soft and moist and warm that she doesn't really think about it before she swipes it away with the pad of her thumb. They're really quite close when she looks back at him, and the rage behind his eyes is shifting, and she is suddenly very aware of the erratic rhythm of her heart. His last comment is still lingering in their minds, and while it's quite unkind, it's the first real notice either of them has given to what's happened in the infirmary. He coughs nervously, and ducks his head, abashed. "Sorry." She watches him, carefully, her breath caught in her throat. An apology from Wally? That's a rare event. "I didn't mean it." And she's still very quiet, and he starts to fumble through his words, because he isn't sure whether or not his apology is being well received, and she's so close and so pretty and god he's just so nervous. "I mean, it's not that I think you're a lady, like one of those girls that has to be dressed up all the time or – not that I don't think you'd look nice dressed up – not that you need to of course, because yeah, you're really hot and -"

He doesn't finish because her arms are winding their way around his neck and he can't breathe and he is suddenly aware of how alone they really are. Robin's already left with Batman, and M'gann and Superboy are taking a joy ride in the Bioship. Kaldur is in the training room, or maybe in the library or maybe in his room and it just barely occurs to him that really, he doesn't care where he is, because he isn't here. Her lips are just as soft as he remembers, and she tastes a little bit like strawberries, and she's pressing up against him and the pressure is really, really nice. Soon she's sitting on the island with her legs wrapped around his waist and she's thinking breathing is really, really overrated.

This is different from their first kiss, which was some sort of mix between anxiety and happiness and relief and suppressed heat. It's all out passion and cautious feelings and lust and soon her lips have parted and his tongue is darting through the opening and having him so close to her is making her mind hazy. Her fingers are fisting in his hair and he's pulling her tight against his chest and she feels, perhaps, that this is a very nice way to make up after a fight, and really, if it's going to be like this from now on, she won't mind as much.

They're sitting on the couch watching the Flash on Television when M'gann and Superboy walk in. They're a little bit surprised when they notice the lack of obvious hostility, but they aren't sitting all that close together, and there's a still a little bit of tension in the air, and while it certainly does feel different, she can't put her finger on it, so she shrugs and grabs her boyfriend's hand and leads him to the kitchen. The slight swelling of her lips and the flush on her cheeks, and the slightly erratic breathing of the boy on the couch go unnoticed.

* * *

><p>"God Baywatch, watch where you're going!"<p>

"If you weren't just standing in the middle of a crowded hallway, I wouldn't have knocked you over! You were practically asking for it!"

"If I wanted to get the breath knocked out of me I would have picked a fight with Cheshire!"

They're glaring each other down in the middle of the hallway. He was late going to the briefing and was attempting to catch up with the rest of the team. He'd been in the process of putting his goggles on, so he hadn't really seen her when he rushed up behind them.

She punches him in the shoulder and shoves against his chest, trying to free herself from the cage he's made over her. He's annoyed, of course, but he can't help but give the faintest shiver when her hand comes into contact with him.

"Get off me!"

"Easy tiger, I don't want to be here either."

She's brushing herself off and glaring at him. He's only a little bit surprised when he sees the heat flare up briefly in her eyes. They're getting much better at reading each other. She turns her back on him and stalks off haughtily, flipping her hair over her shoulder. It's a signal, sort of, and it makes his heart race a little bit. He stares, a little appreciatively, after her.

Robin is off to the side of the hallway, looking vaguely amused. He waggles his eyebrows at Wally, who scowls and brushes past him. "Shut up."

* * *

><p>They've been 'meeting' more and more frequently. It isn't always intentional, when it happens. Often it's spur of the moment – the result of pent up heat and affection and lust and relief. They've been getting more daring too. The cave is no longer empty when they start to go at each other, hungry and restless.<p>

They've only barely avoided detection as far Robin goes, and even Kaldur has started giving them appraising looks. She lets the thought filter through to the back of her mind. It's not as if they don't already know is it? They've all more or less called them out. She gives an internal shrug, and returns to the speedster who is currently holding all her attention.

It had all started out innocently enough. She'd signalled her desire to spend some time together tonight – just watching a stupid movie or something. They could get along on their own after all, they weren't children. Of course, he'd been very close, and she had seen the way his mouth had lifted in a smile when she walked over to the couch, bearing popcorn and pop tarts and soda. He'd reached out for them, and she'd twisted teasingly out of his grasp, and he'd missed by just a little bit, nearly falling forwards off the couch.

She'd laughed of course, because he had looked reproachfully at her and his legs and arms had tangled and he'd slid off in a jumble of afghans and cushions. She slipped a pop tart in his mouth and said, "Only once." When he'd turned to her, mystified, she'd replied with, "You're a big boy now, you can feed yourself," and she'd settled herself on the couch, leaving him to lean against it from his position on the floor.

Thinking back on it, she couldn't even remember what movie they had been watching. Halfway through though, he'd picked himself up and settled into the couch beside her, and she had been all too aware of the hitch in his breath when an on-screen character had thrown a spectacular Hay-maker. The rise and fall of his chest had suddenly turned infinitely more interesting than the spectacle on the television, and she'd turned and rested her head on the back of the couch, quietly watching him. He noticed after a moment, of course, and when he caught her gaze and raised an inquisitive eyebrow, she had just stared impassively back. And then she'd winked.

He hadn't even been sure, and the pop tart had fallen back on the table, unopened. But she'd smiled in invitation, and he'd flushed a million different shades of red, and soon they were both lying on the sofa, fingers tangled in each other's hair and stealing the other's breath away. At one point, she thinks they shut off the television, but maybe it's just that her mind has gone blank and she can't think of anything else because he's blocking her view. He breathes on her neck, and she shivers so openly that he can't help nipping gently at the skin there. The thought sits idly at the back of her mind that she really can't afford to have any hickeys, but then he's sucking on the skin and it just feels so damn _good_ that she can't be bothered to care.

Her fingers are caressing his face and she's biting the edges of his ears and then everything just gets so hot that she makes the logical jump that they had probably better take off their shirts. He stops kissing her just briefly enough to lift the shirt above his head, and he's going for the hem of her tank when a blaring voice declares that Robin has just entered Mount Justice. His fingers still, and eventually pull back, and she can't help but feel overwhelmingly disappointed, but she can respect that he doesn't want his best friend to find him more or less having sex with his teammate in the middle of the living room, so she slides off his lap to the other end of the couch while he pulls his shirt back on.

"Hey Robin!" He calls out, motioning for the little bird to join him to where he's relocated in the kitchen. They'd been running out of snacks anyway.

Robin glances briefly at Artemis, but she studiously refuses to acknowledge either him or Kid, so he shrugs it off and joins his friend. She knows it isn't really fair of her to be upset with him – she'd hardly like to walk in on M'gann and Superboy getting down and dirty on the couch – but she can't stop feeling spiteful at the interruption. Eventually, the sounds of their conversation drifting over grates on her, and she gets up to go train.


	2. Super Volleyball

It's a little while later, in the Bioship on their way to yet another covert mission, that she thinks about how close she came to 'getting it on', as it were, with KF. She gives a tiny shiver of apprehension and delight, and thinks she definitely wouldn't mind seeing what's underneath his spandex tights. She's staring at him, feeling rather disappointed at her inability to see through his clothes, when he catches her eye and gives a cocky grin.

"Like what you see?"

"I don't see much," she responds, completely straight-faced. "I don't have X-ray vision."

And the implication is so clear that he can't help turning beet-red. He stutters out an incoherent response, and while he isn't making a sound, she can see Robin's shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. She gives him another appraising once over, and smirks. "Though it looks like you think that you do."

The bulge in his uniform is getting slightly apparent, and Robin is all out cackling now. KidFlash is so red now, she thinks he might be feverish, and he scowls at his friend and mutters a rumbling "Shut up," as he awkwardly tries to reposition himself. Kaldur throws her an inquisitive look, but she just returns it with a self-satisfied smirk, and really, there's nothing left to say anyway, because their mission starts now and Miss M. is already linking them up.

* * *

><p>The terrain is all ice and snow and while it does admittedly have lots of camouflage potential, she doesn't love the shivers she gets from the cold. The team's split up now, and she's crouching with Wally behind a snow dune, watching the transportation of various metal crates from the back of a metal storage facility. The wind catches her full in the face as she pokes her head out, and the snow stings her eyes. She gives a violent shiver.<p>

She's grateful at least that he's here, huddling in the large white blanket with her, because his heat is intense and very, very welcome. She starts when he pokes her in the side. "Ow!" She whips around to stare at him. _What the hell do you think you're doing KidIdiot? _And she's suddenly very grateful that she doesn't have to open her mouth to say anything, because her teeth are chattering together. To her surprise though, the reply she hears isn't in her mind. "For the Bioship," he whispers, and she allows a small smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. He relents, then, and warms her up as best he can, rubbing her arms to get the blood circulating. She pauses though, because she can feel the tense feelings lying coiled in his mind and the way some other evasive emotion – guilt? Sadness? – tosses itself in the sea of his stormy green eyes. But he looks up and smiles at her, so she just lets it go.

_Move out._

Kaldur's instructions echo in their heads, and they run to the far wall of the facility, hugging it as they make their way to the back entrance. They door is nearly frozen shut, and he has to vibrate the lock open, but they're inside in nearly no time at all, and the door is shut quietly behind them. She positions herself at the edge of a catwalk, waiting. She doesn't need to turn around to know that he's already gone.

The first explosion rocks the building, and she has to brace her knees to prevent herself from falling. She can see clear through to the ground, where a large mass of people are moving in chaotic order towards the site of the explosion. It's made all the more sinister by the way the lights have been turned off, replaced by burning red warning signals – a faux meltdown of some sort no doubt orchestrated by Robin.

A small smattering of workers remain situated on the work floor below. They look restless and wary; eager to run or give chase, whichever the situation calls for. It doesn't matter though; she doesn't need to concern herself with them. At least not yet.

Dropping to the ground and starting off on a low run, she rushes behind the largest metal tank and places a charge just beneath it. The snow is interfering with the radio signals, so she has to set it on a countdown. They have twenty minutes to get out.

A sudden noise behind her alerts her to someone else's presence. She spins, rolling between this tank and the next, arrow poised and ready. A shadow passes by, and she tenses, but nothing remarkable happens. Until, "Oh. You must be the ringleader."

She curses under her breath. KF's ability to get caught is nearly unsurpassed, and she scales the tank and runs along the top, releasing the arrow and allowing it to grab purchase in an adjoining metal case. The explosion blasts the side in a fiery arc towards the gathering of soldiers surrounding her teammate, who rushes to make way. She jumps beside him, and they run towards the centre of the building. _God Baywatch, does the word _discrete_ mean nothing to you?_

He huffs, affronted. _They could see the blinking light of the charge underneath the tank! You didn't put the net up when you were setting it! I was just trying to cover for _you!

_I can take care of myself thank you very much! I just - _

_This is not the time. _Aqualad's cool words cut through their mindless bickering in one fell swoop. _We must rendezvous as quickly as possible. The explosion was contained and they are beginning to open the new arms containers. We are ill equipped to deal with them at this juncture. _

_So, regroup and retreat?_

_God, we can just take them down now! I'm tired of waiting, and I do NOT want to be stuck with surveillance on this freezing rock a second time!_

_Please Superboy, not everyone is immune to open fire. _

She stills, suddenly tense, and draws, notches and releases an arrow in one smooth motion. KidFlash turns to look at her as the catwalk comes crashing down, crushing their pursuers. They can see, however, the telltale glint of metal behind them as the metal crates are opened, and the weapons distributed. _Damn it. _They won't be getting away that easily.

She draws another bow and lets fly, but this one bounces off the top of what looks to be some sort of force field. Cursing, KidFlash picks her up and rushes towards where their other team members are waiting. The odds don't look good.

Even as he skids to a shaky stop among them, he can see that they're already surrounded.

Without so much as a telepathic warning, or even a battle cry, they are thrust head-first into the frenzied fighting. Aqualad is drawing water from the ice all around them, and soon he's nothing more than a whirling torrent of turbulent waves. Miss Martian hovers above them, protecting the team as much as she can – even Superboy a little bit, although that's proving difficult what with his affinity for diving into fights with much more gusto than can possibly be healthy. Robin's already taken down six of the men, but more are oncoming, and Artemis can see, with a sinking feeling in her gut, that they're starting to arm some of the larger weapons.

She's elevated to the highest place she can get, and she's shooting her arrows all over the place, trying to disarm the weapons before they're turned on them. She's starting to panic though. The charge she placed was set to go off in twenty minutes, sixteen minutes ago. Once it blows a hole in the tanker, the acrid smoke combined with the heavy fire will set the place alight in seconds. Nothing will survive – it will literally be a giant scorch mark in the middle of ice and snow.

Apparently, Aqualad is thinking the same thing. _We must clear a path and leave. Now._

But everyone's already engaged, and where did all these people even come from, and Lord, they're already arming another one of their giant machines. She takes aim as carefully as she can, and it blows a hole in the side of the weapon, but she doesn't even have time to breathe in relief. She turns around to scout for more targets when she sees something so utterly terrifying it stops her heart.

She's screaming his name, even as she rushes over to catch him, and she's not quite sure whether the terrified noise is echoing in her head or pouring from her mouth. Superboy turns just in time to catch the perpetrator with a stiff punch to the face, and she can hear, however distantly, the sound of his skull cracking. Robin is already standing over him, casting shadows over his fiery hair, the EMP placed on the end of the protruding shaft to neutralize the explosive. Miss Martian has called the Bioship, and they're loading as quickly as they can, careful not to jostle the redheaded speedster.

She sits in the back with him and fusses with his dressings, trying to clear the area around the protrusion as much as she possibly can. There isn't much to do though – it's hardly bleeding at all – but she can hear the faint laboured breathing and see the fevered flesh and she knows he doesn't have a very long time at all. So she sits, still, with her hands clasped between her legs and her back hunched, and tries not to watch him as he slowly starts to die.

* * *

><p>They've been saying it for a very long time now. Minutes to hours to days. "He's alright," and "He's fine," and "He'll be up and about in no time." (Because speedsters do heal inordinately quickly). And she can hear them all saying it, all the time, but she still won't be able to settle down until she sees him, <em>really sees him<em>, and he's alright and walking on his own and smiling and saying stupid things and starting fights with her.

She's sitting in his room right now, alternately pacing the floor and sitting on his bed, staring at his autographed poster of the Flash, and she can still hear them. Everyone, everywhere, and everything they're saying – it's all echoing in her head. _Punctured his left lung straight through. Inches from his heart. Explosive on the end – if it'd gone all the way it would have turned him to dust. _And she wonders, vaguely, if this was a little bit of how he felt after she'd died. Sitting on the ship and being so unsure of her fate. And she shakes her head and berates herself for being so shallow and petty and stupid, because really, it's not like that. He isn't dead. He hasn't disintegrated. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Except she knows he's hurt, and he _could _have died, and really, he was much better than that, and so careful, and _what happened?_ And she remembers, scared and guilty and confused, the way he'd fallen directly behind her, the relief in his eyes when she picked up his head, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth even as blood started to dribble down his chin. She retreats to his bed, and curls up on his pillow, inhaling the faint scent of him, and stares resolutely at his careworn poster.

She's still there, in that position, when he walks into his room. He just shuts the door quietly behind him, and when she doesn't move, he takes a careful step forwards. His face is closed, but she can see in his eyes that he's guilty and relieved and torn somewhere between being surprised and not being surprised at all. More of a reluctance to hope that she'd be there – she can see the faint flickers of giddy happiness in the very depths of his green orbs. She wants to get up and punch him for worrying her, and apologize for being so stupid, and berate him for doing that and thank him for doing it all the same. Instead she just steps forwards, and her arms gently circle his neck, and she buries her head in the crook of his shoulder and just breathes him in. He knows she doesn't want him to see, but he can still feel the dampness of his shirt, so he just rubs her back in small circles and whispers comforting nonsense. And she laughs a little bit, because this is just so backwards – she wasn't even hurt and she's more or less dropped the ball on the comforting thing and he's picked it up? And she sniffles and smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth and pulls him, slowly, onto his bed with her.

At first she thinks that she can just content herself with lying there, with him, but she knows really it's not enough. He's warm against her and he smells just the same but she can taste the medication on his lips and feel the slight uneven beating of his heart and she wants to be sure. Just to check. Just to know. That he's safe. So she lets her hands slide gently, haltingly, beneath his shirt and trace the planes of his stomach, a little bit hesitant and scared and wary of moving higher. Her fingers can feel the rough edges of his bandages, and she tenses, and moves just slightly away from him, and he can feel the concern and anguish rolling off her in waves, and he pulls her to him. They lie like that for a moment until she collects herself, and then she grabs the hem of his shirt and moves to lift it. The question is clear in his eyes, but he lets her take it off all the same.

The bandage isn't even that large. Just two pieces of stacked gauze on either side of him, held in place by very secure dressings. She traces the outline of the wrappings, her expression equal parts mournful and relieved. She knows it's a little bit stupid, but she asks anyway. "How do you feel?"

And he smiles, because really, it's just like her. "I've been better."

And she smiles back, because his smile is just so warm and bright, and she kisses the spot just above his heart. His skin tingles under the bandages, and he knows what she really wants to say and he lets her trail kisses all over his skin because it's really a small price to pay for worrying her. And soon her shirt is off, and his pants are hanging over the side of his bed, and hers are kicked to the floor, and she's tracing a seductive finger steadily south along his chest. He knows that really, this is just her trying to make sure that he's all right. Taking inventory and relishing his wholeness. But he still shivers from her touch because he knows that she also really wants to revel in the feel of him, of knowing that he's there and experiencing it, and it excites him.

She looks at him, while she hesitantly scratches at the edge of his boxers, her eyes flickering between his face and his chest. He wants her to keep going, wants to be part of the epiphany that they're both here, together, whole. He gives her a wry smile and says, "Go easy on me," expecting some sort of snappy comment in return. But her face is so open and earnest and serious and kind that he flushes and becomes unexpectedly self-conscious, and he finds he can't watch her while she pulls his boxers down.

She knows it's their first time, so she tries very, very hard to be gentle and slow, but they haven't seen each other in a while and his fate was sort of hanging undecided in the air and they're just so glad to be together again that she's really more passionate and lustful than she's anticipated and he's more sensitive and flushed and happy that it's nearly no time at all before he shoots down her throat and she's struggling to clean up after him. He groans embarrassed and lets an arm fall over his eyes. "Damn it. I do _not_ want to be a speedster in _bed_ too."

And she laughs because, god, he's just so cute and it's really endearing that he's so upset about it and she's finally really satisfied that he's alright. He buries his face in the pillow though, and her giggles don't seem to be helping much until she pulls his shorts back up and clambers on top of him and kisses his neck. "Sorry," she whispers, her breath ghosting across his skin. "I was just a little bit eager."

He turns over and she smiles, and even though he's still burning bright, he smiles too, and they kiss each other, soft and slow and sweet. Their underwear is still on, and although they both want to immediately rectify this, they won't be doing anything else tonight, because his breathing is still a little bit too laboured for her taste, and he really doesn't want their first time together to be during the time he's running on empty. So she snuggles into the crook of his arm, and he sets his head on top of hers and they set about going to sleep.

* * *

><p>It's two in the morning, and she hasn't slept a wink. She's just been listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing – observing it as it evens out and eventually becomes easier; more regular. She pushes up slowly because she feels restless and useless and she's got so much pent up rage and aggression and guilt that she can't stop the hammering in her head. She pulls on a random pair of shorts and her tank, and sips quietly out of his room, padding softly to the training room on the other side of Mount Justice.<p>

It's empty, as expected, and she shivers in the cold of the open room. Training dummies are lined up along one end of the room, and she's never been more grateful to have access at all hours of the day. She selects one at random from the row of pristine new dummies, and tears into it. It's sturdy and resilient and she's so glad because she really needs to let loose right now.

She thinks about the way he fell just behind her as she gives it a vigorous roundhouse kick, destroying the seams and kicking stuffing all over the floor. She thinks about the look in his eyes when he saw her face, and she jabs it directly in the gut, ripping open the fabric and spilling the weighted beads all over the floor. She recognizes the gesture for what it was – _a sacrifice – _and then she loses it completely, tearing indiscriminately into the cotton flesh and pouring the guts all over the place.

The sun is coming up outside when she's finally done; she can't see it from here, but she can tell. She's lying on her back, relishing the feel of the cool floor beneath her as she stares at her handiwork. She knows she should clean up – it's really a mess here, and Aqualad will be none too appreciative of the dummy as it now stands – but she can't bring herself to do it. It takes a few more minutes before she picks herself up and even just heads to the showers.

The cold water washes all the sweat and guilt and exertion away, and soon she's just feeling a little bit sore and tired. On her way back past the training room she has a change of heart, and sweeps away most of the mess. She's too tired to right the dummy though, so she leaves it as is and hopes no one sees it. She'll put it away later.

* * *

><p>She's still lying in her room when the rest of the team wakes up.<p>

They wouldn't have noticed it if it hadn't been for Conner. Training with Kaldur again, he leaps just a little bit too much out of the way, and ends up hitting his head on the remains of the training dummy. M'gann screams when it comes tumbling down on top of him, looking very much like the war casualty that it is.

Wally walks in just in time to say, "Whoa Superboy, playing some Super Volleyball with the dummies?" because really, that is exactly what it looks like. Except, of course, for the part where it had been strung up by its neck to hang ominously from the ceiling.

Robin takes a quick glance at the dummy, and gazes curiously at Wally. _What's up?_ And then he knows that no one here did it, and he thinks about how he woke up, and his bed was cold and empty, and he sighs and scratches the back of his head. "Anger issues?"

"You mean _anxiety _issues."

But neither one of them is exactly wrong.

He slips into her room to deliver the news. "You don't have training this morning." She sits up and blinks blearily and mutters a half incoherent. "Why not?" Her hair is in a very messy looking ponytail, and strands of hair are hanging all over her face, and she looks so innocent and open that it almost makes him second-guess himself. But he knows better than that.

"Looks like you got a major workout last night."

"What?" And then it comes back to her and she curses. "Crap, I'm so sorry Robin. I totally meant to clean it up, but it was early and I was tired and I just -"

He shakes his head, because they both know that apologies aren't the reason he's come in here, and it occurs to her that it's very rude of him to come into a girl's room without knocking, so she tells him so. "What if I wasn't decent?"

He's still looking at her very seriously, but he does offer her a casual, "Sorry, won't happen again." She grunts in approval. "Good. I'll hold you to that."

They stand and lie in silence, respectively, until he asks, "You okay?" She mutters something noncommittal and he snorts and says, "If you don't say yes, Black Canary is going to want to give you another 'therapy' session." And she groans and rolls over and says, "I'm fine."

And then he's looking at her, a bit more seriously, until she sits up and says, "You know I can't change with you still in here," and he raises his hands in surrender and _finally_ just smiles and leaves. Once the door is shut behind him, she sits still for a moment, her eyes glazing over and her hands fisting in her blankets, and she closes her eyes and just _breathes. _And then the moment passes, and she's fine, and she gets up and ready because she's been up all night and she is _starving._


	3. Behind Closed Doors

Their 'dalliances' as they snidely referred to them, hadn't been a regular thing. Not really. It had started innocently enough (or perhaps 'innocently' wasn't quite the right word to use?). They had just been swimming together, on the beach, in the early hours of the morning when they collapsed onto their beach blankets and just sat, watching the sun come up. They hadn't been lying together, not really, so it was a bit of a stretch for Artemis to reach over and trace her hand lightly down his chest and over his stomach. "Your civvies really don't do you justice Baywatch," she'd noted. "Such a pity all this is hidden under those massive shirts you wear."

And he's smirked and waggled his eyebrows and said, "Hey, who needs shirts if I've got a gorgeous babe who wants to stare at me all day long?" And she'd been sitting on a very lovely snide comment to accompany it, but his chest was warm and wet and his tongue was tracing the edges of his lips, cringing when they tasted the saltwater, and really, there wasn't far for them to go to start getting naked. So instead she kissed him, and her fingers traced the outline of his manhood over the swim trunks and she could feel him getting excited.

She'd wondered, afterwards why it was that people always wanted to do it on a beach, because really, it was very cold and the water had started to lap at them and sand had gotten everywhere. But the sunrise had been such a lovely accompaniment and he'd been so warm and gentle and sweet, that she supposed really, it wasn't so bad as far as first times went.

* * *

><p>The team is seated around the table while M'gann serves up the food. Roast potatoes, fried chicken, and fluffy rice - a veritable feast. At least, Wally thinks, her cooking gets exponentially better the more often she tries it. He's already digging into it, offering a very unintelligible "Thank you" as she sits. Robin is engaged in some sort of heated debate with Kaldur, and Superboy, Artemis and M'gann are all talking idly about the way M'gann's gotten adjusted to life on Earth. He's already started on his second helping when he feels it, and his leg jerks up under the table and bangs, hard, into the underside. The food jumps an inch in the air and everyone turns to look at him, as he mutters a hasty "Sorry." He knows it's her just by the way her mouth twitches upwards in a sly smile at his discomfort. Her hand is still on his crotch, even when she turns around and resumes conversation.<p>

He tries to continue eating, he really does, but it's just so _goddamn distracting_, and his pace starts to slow and eventually, Robin turns over and looks at him, concerned. "Dude, are you okay? You're barely eating." And this one comment elicits so much attention from the table that he can't stand it and he bangs his head down.

"Forgot to chew KidIdiot?" He can hear the teasing lilt in her voice, and he looks up to glare at her. The flash of heat in his eyes makes him flush, and really, this is all _her_ fault, isn't it? It's all he can do to choke out a resentful, "Mind your own business!" She just coolly lifts an eyebrow and stares at him, and he has to look away again. He can hear Robin cackling as he tries to down his glass of water, whispering something along the lines of, "Hit the nail on the head, didn't she?"

After dinner is over and the team has dispersed, he stalks over to her room ready to tear into her for doing that at the dinner table, and to demand she not do it again. He's stopped though, when he gets inside, by the sight of her emerging from the washroom clad in nothing but a very short fluffy white towel, her golden strands curling around her, heavy with moisture. He swallows and shuts the door quickly behind him while she smiles, laughter evident in her face.

He leaves in the middle of the night, careful to shut the door quietly behind him and retreat to his own room. He knows in the morning Robin's going to jump him, and if he's found to be in _her_ room – he winces at the thought of his best friend knowing what goes on behind closed doors.

He remarks later, to himself, that he never remembered to tell her off. It doesn't matter, he supposes, since he doesn't really mind all that much after all.

* * *

><p>They've started getting careless again – a terrible pattern that she's noticed of their . . . relationship. She isn't even really sure what to call it; it's not something they've ever discussed in so many words. He still slips out of her room in the middle of the night – less likely chance of intrusion – but she's always really wanted to spend at least one full night together with him. She doesn't think she'll get the chance, but Fate is a little bit unpredictable.<p>

The team is split up tonight. Aqualad has a ceremony to attend to in Atlantis, and Superboy and M'gann have opted to go on a camping trip offered them by a very hesitant Superman. Robin is, as ever, with the Batman, so they have the mountain to themselves for the night. It's strange, and quiet.

They started out watching television. It wouldn't have progressed much farther than that, but they were _finally, MERCIFULLY alone,_and they knew chances like this were one in a million. She could hear the subtle breaths he took, saw the way he let his hand fall, open, so close to hers. Really, he should just man the hell up, but she took it anyway, and the way his lips quirked upwards in a smile made her chest warm. Eventually, tired as she was with this whole stupid charade, she'd just up and sat on his lap, snuggling against his admittedly very nice chest

The television is really just background noise at this point. Lips crashing against lips and skin, fingers tearing at clothes, aching to get so much closer – she knows they are perilously close to losing it right on the couch. She shudders though, at the thought of doing it here – she certainly wouldn't like to sit here if this was somewhere M'gann and Conner had ever gotten it on. She pulls back, albeit reluctantly, and notices the measured disappointment in his eyes. A quick kiss at the corner of his mouth, and then she's pulling him by the belt loops towards his room.

He starts, because they've _never_ done it in here before, and really, he hasn't been expecting it, so it's a bit of a mess. He grabs their clothes and throws them on a chair in the corner of his room, making her wait by the bed while he tidies up. She doesn't mind so much, it isn't like it takes him any time at all, but she misses the feeling of his skin against hers, and she playfully sticks her foot out as he comes past, sending him sprawling on the bed.

"Still tripping over yourself, I see," she teases, crawling on top of him. He mock-glares reproachfully at her, even as her lips are hovering just over his. "It's your fault you know," he points out. "You're just such a distraction."

And then there isn't really anymore space for talking at all, because they're so engrossed by each other, so occupied, that their minds are getting hazy and it is becoming very, very hard to focus. Underwear is strewn all over the place, and by the end of it they're breathing heavily, and they're flushed and tired and so _happy_ that they just throw whatever they want on under the covers, and revel in the warmth of each other.

* * *

><p>It's morning, and the first thing she notices is warm arms around her waist, and the smell of pine and peppermint and <em>boy<em>, and it's all just so Wally that she doesn't bother opening her eyes. But then she hears a cackle, and her mind flashes briefly to Robin, and honestly, he doesn't belong in this picture at all. The warmth is suddenly gone, and the rush of cold air under the blanket is so intrusive and unwelcome that her eyes shoot open and she stares, questioningly at a muscled, lightly freckled back.

He's blocking the doorway, and she can hear him mumbling something to someone – Robin it must be, and god it's just so cold without him and she's still so sleep-muddled and tired and really, what the hell Robin, what time is it even? It takes her a moment to realize that there is a very good reason for her not to want Robin to see her here, but then she notices a sugary sweet smell, and the dripping maple syrup on his skin, combined with the feathers floating lightly to stick there, and she gives a short snort of amusement.

The talking immediately stops, and she can see his shoulders tense.

Robin peers at her from behind his back, and she can see even now that Wally's too stiff to move. Robin's face is flushed in a surprised 'Oh-mother-of-Batman-what-the-hell-is-going-on-here' expression, and it's both amusing and humiliating, so she simply raises an eyebrow and points to the door. Wally turns around, and his face flushes, and he's at her side in a flash (_Ha, a Flash!_ she thinks, giddy), and he pulls her shirt – or his rather – up by the shoulders, leaning in to whisper, "Running a little low there, gorgeous." And she notices more with a resigned sigh than anything else, that his shirt_ had_ been starting to slip a little bit off her chest, and she runs a hand through her loose blonde hair and mutters, "Thanks."

Then she turns to Robin and motions for him to get the hell out of here. He turns to his friend and asks what should be a redundant question but really isn't. "Are you guys dating or what?"

And he pauses because really, he's not sure, and he wants to be and are they even? And he just blurts out "Yeah."

Wally stops him as he's leaving, whispering a very rushed, "Don't say a word," to him as he steps into the hall. And then he's back in the room, and they're just staring at each other, and, despite the mortification of what just happened, he does look fantastic, so she smiles and starts to laugh. He looks down at his feathered arms and groans and she just shakes her head and walks over, licking some syrup from his ear. "I think we need a shower, Sweets." And that's the closest she has ever come to a legitimate pet name for him, and it makes his heart start beating erratically, and she just drags him playfully over to his washroom and starts to undress.

"Wait," he starts, and she looks over at him, already naked, and it's taking all his self-control not to just rush over and start ravishing her right away. "Are we, you know, dating?"

And she thinks about it and she knows he's waiting on her answer because he's got that air of hopeful hopelessness about him, and it's so sweet and he's just so vulnerable and she can see that the pause is making him so restless. But he stays quiet, and she's impressed at the very least, so she walks over and licks his chest and tugs on his boxers, and she's satisfied by a very low moan. "I'm serious," he pants, and she smiles. "You have to buy me dinner first, sailor." And really, she knows she's using it a little bit backwards, but it's alright, isn't it, and anyway they both know what she means.

He smiles against her lips and mutters something about this place with amazing pasta, and she laughs and herds him into the shower and she must admit it is one of the most enjoyable showers she has ever had the good fortune to experience.

When they walk into the dining room, of course, they're bombarded by questions from the assembled team, and they look as confused and innocent as possible, saying, that really, everyone already knew didn't they? And wasn't it Robin in the first place who told them to get a room? And if everyone already knew, what difference did it make if they said it or not? And she can see the light in M'gann's eyes and the amusement (and slight discomfort) in Robin's and she laughs and thinks that this is nice. Wally's hand shyly finds its place in hers, and while it's foreign and odd, it's also really very pleasant, and she marvels at how one of the fastest men alive can make the world stop.

* * *

><p>It isn't until later, as she's getting ready for their first real date, that the thought comes barrelling to the forefront of her mind, unbidden. She's closing off all her options; leaving almost no room to manoeuvre and no room to escape. She can tell that soon, he's going to be a permanent fixture in her mind, and that all the paths she takes after this will only ever lead back in one direction. She wants so badly for that to be okay, for this to just be something she can count on, something wonderful and warm and real. She closes her eyes and squeezes them as tightly shut as she possibly can, because she doesn't want to be thinking this – not now. But there's that one dark alleyway in the corner of her mind that she knows she will never be able to push out, or brick up or destroy, no matter what she does. And she wants to bury it so badly because <em>all paths lead back in one direction.<em> But then the doorbell rings, and she knows he's standing on the other side, probably nervous as hell and a little bit uncomfortable, and the thought of his face creased with worry or flushed with nerves is so sweet it warms her heart and calms her down, and she thinks _damnit_, she can let herself be happy. And even as her hands are closing around the cool metal of the doorknob, she knows that anway, as long as he's with her, happy is the only place she can be.


	4. Souvenir

**Author's note: I suggest you listen to the song "It Will Rain" by Bruno Mars before and during this fic. That's pretty much what I did. Also, this is where it becomes drastically not happy. So be warned.**

* * *

><p>It was weird to think she was gone. It had happened so suddenly, without warning, that it was like he had had a limb chopped off and hadn't even noticed its absence. A week without her, certainly that was fine. It wasn't as if she never disappeared sometimes. But a month? That was cause for a bit more concern.<p>

So, kind, caring, considerate person that he was, he'd thought maybe he should check up on her. Just to see how she was doing.

He'd casually walked into her room, expecting her to be lying there, beneath the covers, sleeping softly.

The room was entirely bare.

Oh sure, the furniture was still there, the covers neatly made. But the walls were bare – no photographs of time spent with the team, no stubs from movie dates or cards from holidays. For a minute he had thought he was seeing things, so he'd just rubbed his eyes and looked again. But walking up to the walls, he could see that there was nothing there but fading paint and the slight discoloration and peeling pigments that suggested that something _had _been there. That something _should _be there.

And maybe what he did next could be considered by some to be an invasion of privacy. But he'd been curious – not anxious or panicky, not yet – simply curious about where she might have put them instead. Why she'd taken them down at all. And even though he'd known it was completely out of character for her, he'd even entertained the notion that perhaps she was preparing them for a scrapbook of some kind. So he thought that perhaps he could take a peek (just a quick look) into her closet.

He'd been expecting to find all the decorations from her walls simply stashed somewhere else – in a box, in a folder, even (however farfetched) in aforementioned scrapbook. He hadn't been prepared for the emptiness. The raw smell of smoky wood and leftover dryer sheets clung to the closet, but that was all there was. It was empty. Bare.

He hadn't been able to comprehend it. For some reason, his mind had not been able to make the jump that associated the emptiness of the closet with the only logical conclusion that could be made. He'd started hyperventilating a little bit, and he was getting tunnel vision, and he couldn't function anymore and just _what the hell? _Panicking a little bit, he'd run over to her dresser and began arbitrarily pulling all the drawers out – looking for something, _anything_! The drawers had clattered to the floor, against the walls, into the hall (the last few shattering on impact in a violent explosion of wood and metal), but that had been all there was. Even the stupid, _secret,_ sappy notes he'd written and never had the guts to give her, that he _knew_ she had taken anyway and taped to the bottom of the desk, were missing.

He'd turned, stiff and tense, to the washroom, but he'd really only needed to stand on the threshold to be able to see everything he needed to see. The washroom had proved just as bare, even though he could still smell that faint scent of her jasmine shampoo wafting gently in the empty air. She was gone.

He'd had to sit, silently, still, on her bed, just to be able to breathe. He felt so empty – like the closet, like the dresser, like this _room – _because she'd hollowed him out and taken what he'd thought had been his. The hole in his chest was so gaping and raw and _GOD, _it'd _HURT so BAD _that he thought maybe he'd just stop. Just stop thinking, stop functioning, stop breathing, stop _being, _ and he'd shut down.

Robin had found him there, hours later when the sun had gone down, sitting there, in the dark, staring at nothing. He'd been unsure of what to do (and after all, what _did_ a person do when their best friend was in a state of catatonia), but he'd stolen in all the same, sitting on the bed beside him, just being there. M'gann had floated by, clearing the mess out of the hallway, and she'd peered in. Although both boys had been invisible in the dark, she knew they were there, and although she didn't want to intrude, she knew what had happened – what the mess in the hall and their being in there meant – and she'd felt such a tearing, aching loss that she'd had to rush away. She'd ended up going into the kitchen and making cookies. Dozens and dozens of cookies without really knowing, anymore, what she was doing or what she was making because she was really only trying to keep busy. And they'd piled so high around her and she'd run out of ingredients and then she'd had nothing to do but feel empty.

It didn't take long for Superboy to find her sobbing quietly in the kitchen, or for Aqualad to stumble upon the two boys sitting there, just breathing, in that room.

She wasn't coming back.

* * *

><p>Wally stares absently at the television, watching some old comedy show rerun and munching on a chocolate bar of obscene size. M'gann is bustling around in the kitchen behind him, and he knows she's just trying to keep busy, because really, it tears at them all, but he can't help finding it a bit grating. He wants to snap at her, but it's not her fault, so he just sighs and moves to stand up and leave.<p>

She turns to watch him go, but she doesn't say anything because really, what can she say? So he walks – _walks_ – dejected and lonely down the hallway, passing by her door. He doesn't mean to look – doesn't want to really – but the door is open, and that's really unusual so he pokes his head in, just a little bit.

Nothing's changed since he's been inside sixth months prior. Sixth months of her just being . . . _not here_. The closet is closed, but there are splinters and shards from the metal handles littering the floor of her room (even though really, it's not hers anymore, is it?) and he thinks, detachedly, that he should probably clean it up when something on the top of her dresser catches his eye.

He walks closer, wary, because he's positive there was nothing there when he walked in here months ago, but it's sitting there, on the table, obtrusive and foreign. When he picks it up, it almost takes him a moment to recognize it, but then he sees the flat, broken tip and realizes – it's the arrowhead. He's turning it over when he sees the spot where it was lain on the dresser. In the dust on the table, the word _Souvenir _has been traced. And suddenly he's so angry that he can hardly stand it. Gone with nothing but a goddamn souvenir? It burns in his palm, and he almost wants to throw it at the wall, but he can't. He lowers his arm and palms his eyelids. How _dare_ she.

Taking everything away, leaving them with nothing but _this?_ All those moments they've shared together, working together, learning together. Watching comedy reruns with M'gann and mocking Superboy even as Superman took him to get _apple pie_, of all things, somewhere in the city, and playing pranks with Robin and taking Kaldur out, sometimes, to let him know that they appreciate him, and they love him, and they think he should stop being so damn uptight and just let loose once in a while. And all the times they've shared separately. Privately. Together. The kisses and heat and passion and the way her eyes sparkled like they were full of stars and the way her hair fell in torrents like a wave over her back and on his skin, shimmering like liquid gold.

And just like that, he's lost again – in the thoughts and the memories and the raw emotions they dredge up. The way her eyes danced when she'd caught him, and the smell of her skin – vanilla and cinnamon and some other spice that he can't quite identify but he knows he'll never be able to disassociate from her, and the way her lips were always soft and warm and sweet no matter what. The way she'd flush when he held her close and the way she'd subtly (and not as subtly) let him know she wanted to be with him, close to him; connected. The way her hair blew in the breeze and sometimes caught him in the face and made him smell nothing but jasmine and fogged his mind and made him trip. They way she'd laughed and tossed back some witty comment when he'd reproached her and the way she'd kissed him afterwards just to bring back his smile.

And he looks at the little arrowhead in his hand, and he pockets it anyway because he can't leave without the little souvenir. And even though that's the only tangible reminder he has, the memories still weigh in his mind and in his chest and he can feel them sitting, there, settling, even if they're still uncomfortable and nestled in between the jagged, sharp reminders that there should have been more.

He stands there and breathes. Her scent is long since gone – faded with the cool mountain air – but it doesn't really matter. The act itself can conjure up the ghost of a fragrance – all sweet vanillas and cinnamon and jasmine and that one other, mysterious flavour, and it alternately soothes the bleeding of his heart and the aggravates the jagged splinters in his chest. He glances down at the floor and decides that maybe he can clean up today after all.

And when he's finished and he's just standing there, staring at the walls that say _someone was here_, he traces the outlines of the photographs and the ticket stubs and the cards and thinks, _she took them._ And he presses his palm to the space where he knows that first photograph used to hang – the one from the fair where he was gorging himself on cotton candy and she was dragging him on the rides and she even won against him in the stupid water gun game and she gave him the damn teddy bear – and he even thinks that maybe she still has them. Maybe she's kept them. Maybe she doesn't look at them all the time, or keep them on display, but that's okay too, because really, he can barely stand to look at this room without wanting to cry out, and she probably can't either.

And he remembers, with some chagrin, that the stupid teddy bear is still sitting, tucked away on the top shelf, at the back of his closet. And he won't be able to take it down, or hold it, or even look at it just yet. But just knowing it's there is kind of nice. And maybe she thinks so too.

He closes the door behind him and goes to his room. His cheeks are wet and his vision is blurred and his breathing is a little bit labored, and he holds the arrowhead so tightly that it's starting to cut into his palm. And he knows, without a doubt, that their relationship hasn't yet run its course. It probably never will.

* * *

><p>"<em>KidFlash and Aqualad are here today, at the scene of what is now known to be a planned explosion<em> . . . ."

The colors of the television flicker as it turns on. The first thing you can see is the building - a twisted mess of broken metal and melted glass – burning so large and bright that it looks like a giant beacon to the world. Then, faint though they might be, are the strapping, dark-skinned man directing as much water onto the fire as possible, and the colorful blur in the background, almost blending in with the fiery inferno.

A young man in yellow and red rushes forwards, towards the ambulances, a victim of the explosion lying prone in his arms. As he transfers him onto a gurney, a sudden burst of fire spirals into the air, throwing him into a whirling mass of shadow. And then he's already turning back; ready to rush into the fray once more.

Even after the fire is controlled, and they're cleaning up as much as they can and moving to leave, they still look collected and focused and so _serious. _They move quiet close to the cameras as they go – walking, it seems, because of the odd metal case they're holding between them. KidFlash himself passes by so close to the cameras that every plane of his chest is thrown into sharp relief. And then, within seconds they've disappeared.

If anyone noticed that it seems he has a trapezoidal shaped bump beneath his costume, they don't say a word.


	5. The One that Got Away

**Author's Note: "The One that Got Away" by Katy Perry. You know the drill guys, before and during. Also, I would like to thank everyone that reviewed~ You guys make me happy! (And I'm really, really sorry about this ending). **

* * *

><p>The sidewalk is slick with water. He thinks, afterwards, that that's the reason this happened. Because the ground is slippery, and he's running at the speed of sound for god's sakes, and it is really very hard to make a clean turn in those conditions. The rain water pelting against his goggles really isn't helping with visibility either, and so when that lamp post pops out of the ground somewhere between loading bay one and loading bay twenty-three, he's barely given any time to avoid it. So really, it's not his fault when he crashes headlong into the side of a metal storage crate. It's raining hard and the wind is howling and the waves are crashing with such ferocity against the pier that it is most <em>definitely<em> not his fault that the sound it makes alerts the one, lone patrolman. Or patrol_woman_ as the case may be.

He can feel the fabric of his costume being strained as he's pulled, slightly dazed and suddenly confused by the faint, conflicting scents of the pier, stumbling, through a rusted side door and into loading bay twenty-three. He turns, ready to confront the forces waiting to greet him, but the bay is empty. The roaring of the wind and waves is muffled here; the loudest sound is the pattering of raindrops as they're hurled against the roof. His eyes are narrowed but his heartbeat is steady, and he stands at the ready – defensive and alert.

It isn't until he sees the flash of gold at the end of the long row of crates that he realizes he recognizes the scent – faint and delicate beneath the overwhelming stench of seawater and metal. He gives chase, because really, that's what he does, and he catches up in a matter of seconds.

It doesn't really come as a surprise then, that she's already got the upper hand. Crouching on the top of a nearby metal crate, she kneels, shadowed. Her arrow's been pulled and notched, and it's pointed, he notes, directly at his heart.

He stands there, in silence, staring up at her. It's been such a long time; he's not even sure how long. Years, at least. He can't really see her, not while she's ninja-crouching on the metal crate, but he can smell the faint whiff of jasmine and spices and knows simply by the way the bow is held, unwaveringly, on target, that it's her.

"God KidIdiot, what the hell are you doing?" she hisses. It's so familiar – such a throwback to the days spent hero-ing together, as a team – that it makes his heart skip an involuntary beat. But his face remains stoic and guarded as he responds, "What the hell are you talking about? _You_ dragged me in here!" And she gives an indignant huff, because really, he's turning this on her? Again?

"I see you still take every chance you get to blow your cover." Her voice is cool.

"Apparently you haven't changed at all," he throws back. "Since you're still skulking in places you're not wanted."

It stings, even if she doesn't show it, but he can tell. It's been years since they've needed M'gann to tell them what they're thinking, and apparently, it's a skill that hasn't been swept away with the passing of time. He almost feels guilty about the pleasure he takes in knowing that he's hurt her. But for her to just burst back into his life, unannounced, like this, right _now_ is unfair in itself. The days, the weeks, the _months, _the_ YEARS_, that he – they'd – spent after her disappearance trying to get it together again. Without so much as a 'Goodbye' or 'Sorry' or even 'I'm leaving forever, don't look for me'. And he wants so much to scream at her, and tear into her, and rip her heart from her chest that the force of his feelings barrels through him and nearly pushes him forwards; but while he may be oblivious, he's not stupid, and he knows drawing attention to their little corner of the world is the last thing he needs to do. So instead, he balls his hands into tight little fists and says, redundantly, "You left."

And she would have laughed, actually, because it's just so like him to state the obvious, and even more so because she wasn't really sure what else to say or do, but she catches sight of the bump beneath his costume and it stops her short. He can feel the shift in her attention and it takes him a second to understand what it means, and when he does, he tries to casually shift it from her line of vision, but it's difficult to do while maintaining an inconspicuous demeanour, and eventually he just stands still. And then, like it's just another day, another meeting between old friends, she offers a casual, "How's everyone doing?" And the question is so mundane, and normal, and out of place, that he's actually startled into answering. "They're doing fine."

And the silence is stretching, and he realizes she's actually waiting for him to elaborate. The question isn't just a space filler, not really, because he can see in the expectant way she shifts her weight that she genuinely wants to know – that even though she isn't part of the team anymore, she still cares. So he continues on (albeit warily) with, "Robin's doing well. Giving the Bats a run for his money, actually."

"More than with you and Flash?" she asks, and it's kind of funny because she's right, really and hey, he doesn't realize how much he's missed her and her snide little witticisms and just hearing it again very nearly makes him feel like she hasn't actually been gone for that long. But she has, and they both know it, and it's made all the more glaringly obvious when he continues with his little update.

"Aqualad's been doing really well for himself. He's been going the solo route with Red Arrow actually." He stops and scratches his head, wondering how much he should say. "He _actually _told Aquaman that he was going to strike out on his own. I believe he said something along the lines of '_kicking ass.'_"

"Wow," she breathes, and he can tell she's impressed. "That's great." And she means it. And she's amused and pleased for him, because Kaldur must have changed since she's been around. And she knows he's struck out on his own via the Red Arrow route (she doesn't live under a rock, _god,_ she watches the news still), but to hear he's actually starting to speak out for himself and learned to loosen up more is so amazing that it pulls a reluctant smile from the corners of her lips. "How's Miss Martian been doing? And Superboy?"

"Pretty much the same, I guess." His eyes are still trained on the area where he knows her face is, but no matter how much he squints, he still can't see her. "They're not together anymore, if that's what you're asking, but they're still friends. Miss M. could probably open a gourmet restaurant now, actually, she's gotten _really_ good at cooking." (And here he can tell she's suppressing a chuckle because he would know, wouldn't he). "And Superboy and Superman – well, it's better. They're kind of, _close_, actually."

The silence stretches and he realizes he isn't really done, yet, is he, so he continues with, "Zatanna's been good too. Really good." And then, because he's forgotten that they aren't really on the same side anymore, and that he shouldn't be so relaxed with her, and it's always just been so difficult for him to know when to stop, "Robin and Zatanna got married."

It's not a surprise, not really, but she raises an involuntary eyebrow (not that he can see it), and says, "Oh?" And then, "I don't believe I received an invitation to the wedding."

And suddenly he's all too aware of the metal burning beneath his costume, and the barely concealed ice in her voice, and the temperature in the facility drops nearly twenty degrees and he fidgets a little bit, and it's a testament to how unbalanced he is – how uncomfortable, that's he's managed to stay still for so long anyway. The ridge beneath his costume represents something so large and conflicting and strange that it hangs like her arrow between them, bitter and intrusive. He raises a hand and in a half-hearted, breezy motion, responds with, "We would have sent you one, but you didn't leave a forwarding address." And he can hear the string of her bow as she pulls it just that little bit tauter and knows that really it's her heart that's being stretched to its limits, and the arrow is pointed so solidly at his chest that he almost misses the fractional beat where it quivers, just a little bit.

"Congratulations are in order then, to the happy couple." And suddenly he knows that they're walking a very, very thin line and if he didn't know her so well, he wouldn't have been able to catch that slight inflection at the end of the sentence that means she's trembling under her skin, and he starts to lift his arms and take a step forward. But the arrow is still between them, so he stops, haltingly, and looks up at her. And he reminds her so much of the boy he used to be, years ago, when he would meet her when she walked into the mountain and his face would light up and he'd come over with his arms raised meaning to give her a hug. And he'd stop short, and he'd look a little bit lost and uncertain, arms still awkwardly raised, because he didn't know if he could hug her, since she'd never really been that big on PDA.

And right now, he wants so badly for them to meet each other halfway. For it to be okay for them to reach each other – to stop and talk and not be enemies. And sure, they're kind of in that moment right now, but not really. He'd being targeted and their words are clipped and loaded and they both know they're on opposite sides of a tall, glass wall.

She pivots on the spot, and disappears. He starts, and the facility suddenly seems so much emptier and quieter and cold and he feels that awkward numbing in his chest that often accompanies those periods when he's just completely still. And it's just so draining that he doesn't even notice when she comes to stand three lights down from him. But she clears her throat, and he looks up and sees her, standing there. And she's older, and stronger, and lean and more mature, and yet she's somehow exactly the same.

She walks up to him, closer and closer, arrow still drawn, but they both know she won't shoot him. Soon they're only an arm's width apart, her arrow brushing against the tip of his chest. And he can see her, and she looks so beautiful and strong and now that she's closer, he can see her eyes. And they're so different – still fierce and strong and striking – but they're missing that light and that laughter and that smile and it's just so wrong.

And then her arrow is dipping and she leans closer, and he can suddenly see the trapezoidal arrowhead hanging around her neck, and realizes that this is where it's gone. He'd lost it a little while ago, but things had been so busy and his life had been moving so quickly and things were just changing all over the place that he hadn't thought about it for very long. He reaches out a hand as though he means to take it from her, or simply confirm that it's real, but she moves out of the way, and although her tone is teasing, there's no masking the sadness in her voice or in her smile when she says, "You don't belong to me anymore."

Her arrow is lowered when she turns around. He wants so badly to stop her, to run to her and drag her back and force her to come with him, but he can't. So he stands there, frozen with emotions that are fast rising and powerful, and he can feel his shoulders and legs vibrating with the sheer force of them.

She pauses at the door. "Goodbye." And it's the most heart-wrenching thing that's happened tonight, this goodbye. It's decisive and definitive and final and they both know what it means. If they ever see each other again, it will be in battle; a battle to the death. And they both know what they outcome of such a fight would be.

He wants to toss out a 'See you around' or a 'Later' or more of a 'It's not really Goodbye', but he knows anything like that is a lie, and they've had enough of those between them to last a lifetime. And maybe she can tell, because she turns around and lets an arrow fly, and it embeds itself into the wall inches from his head. And she's gone when he looks back, so he just stands there in the giant room and listens to the staccato beat of rain. His hands are clenched into fists and they're pressed to his eyes so tightly he thinks he's probably imprinting his flesh, through his costume, with his wedding ring. And then the emotions are just too much, and he can't contain himself anymore, and he bursts from the bay with all the pent up energy of years spent waiting and hoping, and he runs.

He can't go home, not now, not like this, but he really doesn't know where else he could go, not now, not like this, so he runs without direction or thought. He just runs and runs and he keeps speeding up and he thinks, idly that maybe he can go back in time and just stop this all from happening. Everything, all of it – not just this night but the night before and the one before that and all the nights he's spent without her. But he can't because it's already been done, and he can't change the world and really, he would only be postponing the inevitable. So he just keeps running and running and running, and knows that even though he's going so far, so fast, he's really just standing still.

* * *

><p>She watches him leave from her perch in the shadows, and she doesn't cry – it's been so, so very long since she's cried – but she wants to and she wants him back and all she can do is stand there and let the rain wash down her face, cold and hard. She leans back against the wall and looks up at the sky and fingers the pendant around her neck, and knows that if she'd never left, she'd be wearing the matching ring.<p> 


End file.
